


save you a seat

by hippocampers



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 06:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12551076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocampers/pseuds/hippocampers
Summary: “Five years. Bloody hell.”“Yeah,” Tony murmurs. “Five years.”The headstone at their feet doesn’t seem to have weathered, dates as harsh against the granite as they were last year, and the year before that, and the one before that—He shakes his head. Too long yet not long enough for grief to have passed by.





	save you a seat

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to the whole historyboysnet chat, who will hurt me - well-deserved - after reading. thanks, all, for being fab x

“Thought I’d find at least one of you lot here today.”

Anthony glances up at the voice. It’s familiar enough to turn his head, and he quirks a brow in surprise when he sees its owner. “Crowth-- Chris. Hi.”

“Hi,” Crowther grins, hands in pockets as he approaches the other man – they’re men now, something bizarre that Tony may never get his head around. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Giving the pubs a miss?”

“I’m banned from a fair few of the ones you all frequent,” Tony shrugs. In truth, he’s only banned from one – two if you count the Wetherspoons, but who really gets banned from a _Wetherspoons_ of all places - but it’s a bit of a ball-ache to go all the way to Oxford to be reminded of how much richer his friends’ lives are than his own. Still, this quip makes Crowther laugh, shaking his head.

“You always were a bit of a wildcard.” He makes his way over to stand next to the other, looking down at the grass with what he deems to be an appropriate sobriety. “Five years. Bloody hell.”

“Yeah,” Tony murmurs. “Five years.”

The headstone at their feet doesn’t seem to have weathered, dates as harsh against the granite as they were last year, and the year before that, and the one before that—He shakes his head. Too long yet not long enough for grief to have passed by. A hand settles on his shoulder.

“Do you—Every year?”

“Every year.”

Chris nods curtly, turning his face away. Shame, perhaps, that his visits are less diligent. A shame mirrored in Tony himself; God knows what Jimmy would say if he saw the bloody state of his life.

No.

Tony knows what Jimmy would say. He’d rather not think of it.

The silence grows uncomfortable – he can see Chris shifting on the spot. “Um… How’re the kids?”

“Yeah, good. Allie’s starting school soon, and we’ve finally got Thomas sleeping through the night, so that’s good.”

Tony nods, the minutiae of parenting eluding him. He’s never really gotten that far. “That’s… good,” he echoes blandly. It all feels false.

“Yeah.”

Another heavy silence descends, and Tony starts to wonder when Chris is heading back to wherever he’s come from and leave him in peace. Strange, really; the graveyard is public and yet he feels almost violated, a frustrating sentiment considering James meant the same to them all. School friends. College friends. Should have been housewarming friends, wedding friends, godfather-to-my-kids friends.

A tear, unbidden, rolls down his cheek. Perhaps it’s the withdrawal. Only day apart from his mum’s birthday that Tony makes the effort to be sober. His hands itch for something, anything. His head throbs. Fuck. Another tear drips from his chin, floodgates opened.

“Shit, Tony, don’t—I’m awful with tears. I don’t even have a Kleenex—” Chris pats his pockets nervously, but tony waves it away.

“It’s fine, it’s alright. Fucking stupid, really, crying over Jimmy Lockwood. He’d hate it.”

Chris’ hands still, and he gives the tiniest of smiles. “He would. Couldn’t stand anything but laughter, that lad.”

“Lad. He should be a man.” Should be husband, dad, grandad. Not frozen, forever, as a lad. 27.

“I know.” Chris swipes a hand across his own face now, staring down. Tony notices the lily in his other hand, practically strangled to death with the strength of Chris’ grip. “Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed.”

Seemingly following Tony’s gaze, Chris bends to place the lily at the grave – it’s hardly sparse, clearly the Lockwood clan have already visited today. Still. Another never hurt. Tony himself brings a can of lager. Much more fitting.

“Here-“ Chris says as he straightens, wiping away the last of the tears now. “Remember when you gave me that lap dance at Dakin’s birthday—”

“—and Jimmy laughed so hard he snorted whiskey all over Dakin’s mum’s pouf? That was great.” Tony grins at the memory. It doesn’t feel as blasphemous as he was expecting. “And the time he tried to pierce his own ear and nearly gave himself sepsis?”

Chris laughs now, a proper belly-laugh. At a grave further ahead, an elderly lady glares. “Shit, of course. He did it with a pin dipped in vodka, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, ‘cept he forgot we’d diluted the vodka with water so my dad wouldn’t notice,” Tony laughs too now.

“Oh, and when he bought Pos a box of condoms on his birthday for finally being legal – back when it was 21 for the gays and all that,” Chris snorts, resting a hand on Tony’s shoulder to keep himself up. “The look on David’s face-“

“ _James, I’ve been working through a box of my own for several months, thank you very much. I need neither yours nor Thatcher’s approval-_ ” Tony says, in a silly falsetto that’s reminiscent of his Claudine days, apparently an impersonation of Posner. It makes Chris guffaw harder, until the pair of them are in stitches, raucous in a manner impolite for the graveside. Jimmy’d be delighted.

They sober a little as the lady with her dog walk by, tutting their disapproval, but the smile remains of both of their lips. The quiet between them now is a comfortable one.

“Look, Tony. We’re all going to the Black Swan at 5. A few pints of lager, maybe some more nostalgia. We do it every year, even if we don’t come to the grave,” Chris explains. “I’m sure Don mentions it in his letters-“

“He does.”

“Come along? Today? It’s five years, got to do something special,” Chris nudges him in the ribs with an elbow, and a sick sense of anxiety floods Tony’s stomach.

“Oh, Chris… I don’t know- It’s been so long, you won’t miss me-“

“Yes we will,” Chris says firmly, nudging him again. “We miss you both.”

Tony swallows. Chris waits, ever patient. A bird whistles high up in the trees, a stark reminder that life outside the graveyard goes on.

He sighs. “One drink.”

Chris grins, and claps him on the shoulder. “Excellent. I’ll pick you up at quarter to, then.”

It’s almost reassuring that his friends still know him well enough to know that without an escort, Tony won’t turn up at all. “Alright. Quarter to.” He can get a hit in before then, stop the shaking hands, give the impression of normalcy. Now to find a wife and pop out a few kids in three hours, and it’s all dandy.

“Brilliant. I’ll see you then. Give you a bit of time here first,” Chris says, squeezing the shoulder he’s still got a hold of. “It was good to see you, Tony.”

“It was good to see you too,” Tony says, and is surprised that he means it.

Chris gives a final smile before letting go, waving as he wanders back to the car and presumably his kids. Tony returns his gaze to the grave. The bird keeps on singing.

“We’ll have a beer on you, Jimmy,” he murmurs, patting the stone a little awkwardly. “I’ll save you a seat.”

**Author's Note:**

> final proper fic of fictober (kind of)! this has been a really nice month, i'm going to miss the flow of content.
> 
> as ever, comments and kudos carve my pumpkins (oo-er) and i wish you all the loveliest of halloweens!
> 
> ps; pos hates thatcher as much as i do


End file.
